Written January 2015.
“Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente” – I love it when you shut up, because it is as though your are absent. An ode to the beauty of women, just only when she stays quiet and keeps her distance. Words said with a wink in the opening line of poem 15 of Pablo Neruda’s collection of ‘Viente poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada’ (Twenty love poems and one song of despair).
Poems are very much open to interpretation, and many callas as to more benignly remain quiet for just a moment. But I prefer to cheekily tell a girl to shut up every now and again. And while I may now be able to get away with that, Pablo can. He wrote this collection of poems when he was yet an ungainly twenty year old. And within them, there is some of the most lyrical Spanish I’ve read. (If you want to read just one, then poem 20 is particularly beautiful). These poems helped to catapult him to literary celebrity. And through the remainder of his life he took smart advantage.
I came across Pablo and his words when I visited his old house in Valparaiso, Chile. The city of Valparaiso is an enchanting and incredibly cool place. Houses adorned in multi-coloured paint and work from the worlds premier graffiti artists climb the hills that rise above a port, which was once south americas largest. Alleyways, staircases, and rickety funiculars make an unfathomable network of paths between them. And the city is the centre pieces of one of the worlds best new years celebrations. Twenty kilometres of fireworks synchronised along the bay, witnessed by 800,000 people who then party until dawn. The house is perfectly placed to witness all of this (the view is pictured above). Narrow, but tall. Five floors of ever improving panoramas, and each floor filled with facets of his personality. There’s his private bar, that only he himself was permitted to manage, with pencil drawn moustache and funny accent for the occasion. His whisky chest (an idea I’ll certainly borrow when I get my own house). The dinning area, which was complete with guests every evening. Pablo never dined alone, and the evenings were always to him the perfect time for conversation. Above is his bedroom where he siestad every afternoon he was in the house. His naps were sacrilege, and they were never to be interrupted by anyone, no matter how important the visitor. And on the top floor his study. He wrote for a few hours each day surrounded by books, old maps, and the best view from the house. He treasured company and laughter. And each room is adorned with unusual objects from his travels and interests, a showcase of his childlike appetite for fun and curiosity. It’s aspects of the good life, la buena vida. And so appealed, I brought a book of his poems in the original Spanish. I’ve since been using to regale the locals. For some reason the girls don’t immediately jump into my arms (or my pants) after a reading. It must be my accent that needs improvement.
There’s street art wherever you can point your camera lens in Valpariaso
Buildings spilling up the hills. Residents used to paint there houses using leftover paint from the shipyards giving rise to the cities now famous patchwork of colours.
If you’re lucky you’ll find a funicular up the hills. Otherwise it’s stairs like these.
Thankfully, I was given a little practice with my chilean Spanish on party night. I arrived in the city from the nearby capital of Santiago (about two hours away by bus) on the afternoon of New Years Eve. With a crowd from my hostel we barbecued and drank (emphasis on the drinking) as afternoon ticked into night. Then, in advance of midnight, we followed a local who negotiated a seemingly complex network of streets and alleys that rose and dipped over various cerros (hills) in the city. We reached Plaza Baburriza, packed with people, but open enough to allow views of the day – improved through some quiet passive aggressive jostling for position.
Midnight struck to cheers. A solitary firework was launched. This is south american punctuality. The main display was not launched into being until fifteen minutes later. It was worth this short extra weight. Synchronised splashes of colour stretching across the bay from Valparaiso’s port below, across to the neighbouring beach resort town of Viña del Mar and further across to Concón. Sounds of explosions muffled by distance were interspersed by champagne pops and oos of human appreciation. Smartphones held into the sky to capture the spectacle in a way that the mind has arguably forgotten how to.
And then we danced. Drank more and danced. I had a backpack filled with beers and a bottle of rum. These are the joys of a summers night street party. Cheap alcohol, and increased means to make friends and conversation. A cloud of marijuana hung in the air – a more latin offering of mi casa es tu casa. Talking to one group of Chileans I’m persuaded to practise some of the local slang. They teach me “la conche de tu madre” and “te quiero poner el pico”. I don’t want to translate to literally here. The first is a reference to your mothers delicate parts, and the second a blunt way of asking a girl to bed. I’ve had enough rum that I’m willing to be caught on videoing saying the second to a passing girl. It’s not exactly lyrical poetry.
The crowd continued to grow in the plaza as a DJ played electronic music, funneling up historic steps and squeezing along piss and people filled alleys. If you’re male or female there is no privacy in urination tonight. The smell the next day is almost overwhelming. Below in the main plaza of the city live bands finish their new year tunes, and more spill upwards to our spot. It’s all wonderful stuff until dawn. At 7am I find myself dancing with a gigantic sombrero to a middle eastern band in a small club below my hostel. But legs don’t carry me much further from here. I’ve already taken one painful wrong turn on the streets tonight. A wrong turn in this city can result in you being 200 meters above and half an hour backtrack from your destination. It’s daylight now and my party until dawn mission feels complete. It’s all I can do to stumble to bed and fitfully sleep. The streets will continue to remain active for a few hours yet.
No New Years day is complete without sleep deprivation and a hangover. We eat pizza and drag ourselves to the beach that day. It’s only after a nights rest that I do my sightseeing of Valparaiso, and discover Pablo Neruda, his words, and his vida buena.